Slow Lane Life II

I’m leaving Slow Lane Life II.

Over the past year and more, in the emotional state that new grandmotherhood induces, I have become less guarded when blogging and particularly when posting photographs, so that family and baby grandson could be seen and easily identified, even if they remained unnamed.

I realised that said family never read my blog, although it certainly was not kept secret from them, but also that they had not been consulted or their permission sought. I began to feel uncomfortable about having revealed them to the world without their knowledge or consent, and felt sure that they would be unhappy to hear about it so late. And I hate a family row more than anything in the world. So I took a more discreet, less confessional way out: I would close SLL II and start again.

Of course, I could have opted instead to delete all my undeclared photographs, but this would seriously affect the other purpose of my blog, namely its function as a record of my life here; many posts would over time become incomprehensible to me. (And it’s hard to delete photos of an adorable baby grandson!)

And so I have started another blog, helpfully entitled Slow Lane Life III (not the most imaginative title but hopefully familiar enough to allow some old faithful Followers to remember and call in on spec, trusting that I’ll be in and with the kettle on. Which of course I will be….). The same people will still be there, but not photographed without their consent, and I can stop feeling guilty.

In time, perhaps within a month, I shall close Slow Lane Life II entirely, and archive it for my own self-obsessed purposes, hoping that anyone who remains interested will have followed me across to the new blog.

To access the new incarnation of Slow Lane Life, all you have to do (I hope!) is click this link. And then find some way of Following! See you soon.

I have been away with the family, and will be back soon to tell you about it.

Meantime, from a very temperamental internet connection in Italy, I closed this blog down for a few days, an act which has turned into a bit more of a problem than I anticipated. I don’t understand the admin side of blogging very well….

It is open again now for anyone who wants to read it, but I think I may start again soon with an entirely new blog, and mothball this one. How to ensure that anyone interested enough to move with me can do so is a dilemma I need to deal with first.

Here’s the view that greeted me on the first morning of our stay near Lucca. Bliss.

How is it possible that Baby E can be a year old? Wasn’t he born just a few short months ago? Six, maybe seven months?

But it is possible. There were cards, presents, a picnic, and rather emotional parents to prove it. Baby E’s birth had been difficult and protracted, and it took a long time for the rather frightening memories to retreat; there was some reminiscing and a general feeling that they had done well after such a traumatic start.

Daddy, whose birthday is on the same day as Baby E’s, hardly got a look in, although I had  a little spot of reminiscing about his birth all those years ago. That too had not been easy, but in the Good Old Days new mothers weren’t turfed out of hospital in the blink of an eye, but stayed in bed for a week in the care of nurses and fierce ward sisters. Such luxury!

The birthday boys opened their presents.

Baby E loves presents.

Presents with wheels or that make a lot of noise were especially delightful.

But books were still to be bitten; tried-for size hats and sweaters were to be pulled off impatiently as soon as possible, with a rising note of protest: “NehnehnehnehNEH!”

The picnic in the park was fun, with children, two more babies, and a variety of doting adults. He loves people, including his other grandma, who was visiting from Mexico, and he lasted the entire afternoon, very tired, but determinedly resisting a nap. (There was to be a major meltdown at bedtime when he could not last another moment…)

He regarded the balloons with suspicion.

But……….

….he discovered that he loves birthday cake baked by Mama and Grandma. This usually sugar-free baby thought a Victoria sponge cake, filled with raspberry jam and whipped cream, was just divine. Not a single “Nehnehneh” was uttered. The next day he went back to sweet potato, quinoa, spinach, fruit, yoghurt and general wholesomeness, but oh, that cake was lovely!

Saying goodbye was less painful than usual because we will all be together again in mid-October for that family holiday, a late celebration of Daddy’s birthday, not just Baby E’s. Daddy has probably guessed by now where we are going, but if he has, he’s being too tactful to let on.

On our return, I’ll tell you how we got on.

I live in an area where grey/white-haired old ladies are commonplace. Although tight curly perms and blue or lilac rinses are no longer in fashion, weekly visits to hair salons, of which there are many, many, many, the local college having had a hairdressing training centre for years, for a shampoo and set are expected.

With some initial trepidation, I have been growing out my hair colour for several months now, and going grey. And I love it. It has been over 40 years since I last saw my natural colour with more than half an inch of root regrowth, so the process has been one of discovery and indeed wonder to me.

It has also involved getting a much shorter haircut; M, my hairdresser, tells me I should be dye-free by Christmas. At present, I look as though I have a large splash of whitish paint on the top of my head, and my originally warm brown (artificial) colour has faded to a rather sickly orange. I can live with that though; I have a splendid haircut, and rejoice in never again having to sit for long boring hours with dye on my head listening to pop radio or reading garish magazines while it “takes”.

I  have had a thin white stripe in my fringe since I was a girl, so fully expected to look like a badger once I let the artificial colour go, but instead I find it still a mix of white and dark, what my mother – who had only the occasional white hair – disparagingly called pepper and salt. I can live with that too, resolving always to have a good haircut, whilst knowing I shall never be Helen Mirren. I may occasionally introduce a temporary thread of some mad colour, but not yet.

M is an amusing and very engaging hairdresser; she never asks what we are doing at the weekend, or where we are going on holiday, but instead makes us laugh a lot with frank and forthright tales of her hugely dysfunctional family, her penchant for spending extravagantly, the work-shy self-pity of the young assistants, who ask for the day off because they have a headache, her older gentleman friend, her hangovers and current (ever-changing) wish list for a different life, and how her little dog (once dyed blue) has got into the neighbour’s chickens again and carried one off. She takes everyone’s advice, and follows none of it, but she never whines or feels sorry for herself. The Gardener loves her too, although he regards his appointments, always very early in the mornings, as therapy for her, and wonders if he should charge her instead.

The first time I ever coloured my hair was in my early 30s, when a friend hennaed it; as some of you may recall, powdered henna involved mixing with warm water, making a thick paste that smelled of spinach and cowpats, had to be applied thickly with a brush or fingers, lumps dropping off onto the floor as it was applied, and one’s head being wrapped in a plastic bag for hours, before copious messy rinsing, and the hair emerging  gloriously red and glossy. Ears were always slightly orange round the rims, pillowcases were ruined, the rather organic smell lingered for days, but I loved red henna, and was sorry when it ceased to cope with my increasing grey hairs.

The friend who introduced me to henna was Connie, like me a hard-up single parent in a rented city flat, in 1972. We stayed friends for many years, although after she moved south, we gradually lost touch.

Last weekend, The Gardener and I went to Brighton, he for a photography day with similar enthusiasts, I to meet up with Connie again for an afternoon. And it was as though we had seen each other only last week; we walked and talked, talked and walked, filled in the gaps for each other, found out who had run off with who, or died, or gone to prison, or America, joined or left a commune/cult/kibbutz (well, the ’70s were an interesting era!) and  realised that the women had generally fared rather better than the men, in relationships, lifestyle and health. The Gardener joined us later, and Connie asked him innocently, and to his great amusement, “Is she still so untidy?” At first I protested, but remembered that I had indeed been shockingly untidy in those early days; I had forgotten (and have pulled my socks up since!) but evidently Connie had not. If it wasn’t for my desk and the big dresser, I could claim to be quite a tidy person these days…..

And in the early evening, we said goodbye, having enjoyed reconnecting so easily, but will stay in touch. It was so lovely to talk with someone who knew me well in my 30s, and who shared some of my history.

I liked Brighton very much, busy, buzzing, congested, traffic-laden and downright filthy as it was (and yes, it was filthy! Brighton and Hove may hold the world record in claiming parking penalties, but they certainly do not spend their earnings on early morning street cleaning or refuse removal!) and loved the street life, the colour, the lanes, the pier, the hot sunshine and the sparkling blue sea. We had fun, and nice food, a quiet airbnb in Hove, and for The Gardener, who had lived in Brighton as a young man, a trip down memory lane.

After two days of Brighton, we pottered about elsewhere, including rather grotty Hastings, lovely little Winchelsea (thinking of you, LW!), and on to Dungeness, that very strange area where Derek Jarman spent his final years.

His house is still there, although it appears to be empty, but the garden is respected by the many pilgrims who visit the spot. Although I could understand what drew him and others to live in what appeared to me even on a hot sunny day as a bleak and unforgiving spot, I could not imagine coping with so little greenery, trees, shelter or seclusion.

There is a 15-inch gauge railway, as well as a nuclear power station, a pub, boats that may or may not sail again, an assortment of dwellings, and a massive shingle bank. In all, a rather special and unique place, but one I probably won’t visit again.

We returned to Hove, where we had an enormous vegetarian dinner in the eccentric and cheerful surroundings of Planet India, and the next day, weather having cooled and dampened, we came home. We stopped in Salisbury (very lovely, and with the added benefit of a huge Waitrose, always a thrill for me!) and had lunch, and pressed on. We collected Flossie, who gave us a rapturous, whirling, grinning welcome, greeted the cats who most certainly did not welcome us, and had an early night.

The Gardener and I always manage to pack in such a lot to see and do in our mini-holidays, and come home tired and grateful for our own bed, but it had been fun.

Next trip? London, to share in celebrating the shared birthday of Baby E and his father; before then, our Canadian friend is coming to stay – 4th year in a row! – and we bet she’ll say, as she always does, “This will probably be the last time I come over here”….. As if.

In October there is a family trip abroad, planned by my daughter in law and I when she was here – we are not telling the Lovely Son the destination, referring to it as Holidayland – and after that, we are doing nothing. Nothing. At. All.

Warning: much baby in this post. All baby, in fact.

Baby E’s mother calls him “Maharajah” as entirely befits a very important little person. He tries to live up to his title. (Although she also uses other terms of endearment – “Little potato!” is the one that amuses me most.)

When such an eminent being comes to stay for a week, everyone knows his or her place. We become willing slaves. The Maharajah demands attention, adoration, constant amusement, prodigious amounts of carefully-prepared nutritious dishes, interesting toys and books, an array of live animals to gaze upon in wonder and delight, and strong obliging slaves who can lift and carry him wherever he wants to go, as he increases in weight, mobility and confidence in his holiday palace.

He receives all of the above, and more. Baby E has come for a seaside holiday with his mother, who has been promised time to sleep. The house fills suddenly with quilts to sit on, borrowed fireguard and baby gates to contain, and toys, books, and noise-making stuff to play with.

The willing slaves are a given, of course. The older slave, known as Grandma, takes care of the other slaves (Mama, Grandpa) as well as His Highness, and makes sure that the animals – the live entertainment – receive some attention too. Grandpa has to go to work, but he takes the early morning slave duty, sitting quietly with the sleepy Maharajah while they both wake up properly, and then playing – sleepiness switches dramatically to liveliness in a nano-second. A chronically under-slept mother is instructed to stay in bed for a couple more hours; she does not argue.

The dog, always rather scared of children, learns very quickly that babies shed special dog treats very liberally. Soggy lumps of toast, half-chewed rusks (sugar-laden in my day, now organic spinach, kale and apple, all very ….er…. wholesome-sounding), and whatever falls from the high chair in pureed form – spaghetti bolognaise (favourite food ever) – are all welcomed by the new and attentive Guard of the Royal Highchair. She walks carefully beside the buggy, and His Highness helps to hold the lead.

She misguidedly hopes that babies can throw balls into the sea for her. Perhaps one day; for now, the gritty sand is just too fascinating.

All Flossie’s former fear of small children has vanished; she has just added to her pack, and while we remain very cautious about physical contact between Baby E and the animals, she gives him an occasional small lick on his toe, two of the cats come to greet him (fleeing when he shrieks with delight) and we trust that Baby E’s immune system has been strengthened by a week in the company of pets and their hair. The slaves’ duties do not allow enough time for much housework.

Meanwhile, we learn to wake up very early, ready for action. Much of our day involves feeding an enthusiastic eater, but we also go out to amuse ourselves too.

The big wheel is interesting (perhaps less so for Baby E’s mother!)In fact, almost everything is interesting; people, pets, places, food, everything but the car seat. We have the most enormous fun; Baby E learns on the first day to pull himself to stand, spends the week practising (standing up in the bath, the paddling pool, our laps) and by the end of his stay is ready to tackle the step out of the kitchen, which, thankfully, is too high for his chubby legs to manage.

In no time at all, their holiday week is over, and it is time to drive a squalling baby (who hates the dullness of the rear-facing car seat and must also fight very loudly the urge to sleep) and his carsick mother to the railway station some 45 minutes away. We hope to help them both onto the train – they have so much luggage and equipment! Some of it is our fault, the grandparents who send our lovely visitors home laden with gifts….

But things don’t go well. We find that the new policy at the station is to allow only one non-travelling person onto the platform; one grandparent must stay in the ticket office, saying goodbye there, and watching the other grandparent disappear with precious visitors, pram and enormous suitcase, to wait for the train and ensure that all get stowed safely on board.

There is a polite, quiet but determined disagreement about this quite nonsensical rule, which is at odds with the printed notice that states that non-travelling persons may be allowed through the barrier at the discretion of the staff. The staff (in this instance a very young man who looks rather scared) dares not re-interpret the new unwritten policy. No, there is no manager available on a Sunday.

So only The Gardener goes up to the platform with mother and baby, comes down after a few minutes (the train has been delayed) to allow me my turn. But then – so typical of him to tackle a problem head on! –  he goes off to speak to the manager, who does indeed exist after all, and suddenly reappears on the very quiet, uncrowded Sunday platform; we are both allowed to help mother, baby and luggage. He is holding the necessary complaint form; the new policy is to be reviewed soon, and our views will be made known. Oh yes.

The train stops for 90 seconds only, but the doors are locked electronically for the last 45 seconds, so we dare not get on, for fear of finding ourselves inadvertently transported to Paddington. It is already very crowded; there is almost no room for anyone’s luggage to be added, and mother and baby must leave it all in the open area to jostle their way through the chaotic coach to find their seat. We wave forlornly, but know that they cannot see us; modern travel may be efficient, but its haste is brutal.

They will be met at Paddington, and as the train terminates there, will be able to disembark in a less rushed and chaotic manner. We drive home and pack up the paraphernalia, the baby gates, toys, books, travel cot and all evidence that our lives had been turned upside down for a glorious week in the company of a little Maharajah.

PS: The day after he gets home, I receive this…..

On Monday coming, I will have lived here for five years.  It seems an age, and only since yesterday, all at the same time.

So much has happened in those years, so little happens each day, and somehow I have an unimaginably different life from what I could foresee when I embarked on that long, rather nightmarish trek from Newcastle in the North East to West Somerset, one boiling hot July day.

So I have gathered up five different elements that sum up my life as it appears to me today.

1. Relationships.

Well, the entirely-unforeseen partnership with The Gardener has to be the most significant element to be introduced into my new life. We have grown comfortable with each other, in the most ordinary ways, yet still retain the ability to talk, laugh, have fun, surprise each other, and to know that this late-found love will last us through the remainder of our  lives.

Then the arrival first of a daughter-in-law and then of a grandchild. I really believe that new parents have no idea of how their baby is going to change life, priorities, thoughts and feelings for the grandparents in the most profound and significant ways. Baby E has created and filled a space in my heart that no one else could ever usurp.

Neighbours (and their dogs) feature daily in my life; there is no escaping the fact that this area has a high proportion of older residents, mostly very interesting people, but I do sometimes yearn for younger friends with a less fixed outlook on life, and I miss my old, arty, lively, politically-opinionated friends up North. We sometimes talk of moving nearer to a city, in order to feel more in tune with other people and their interests and beliefs, but we know that we would lose something quite extraordinary by leaving such a beautiful and rich landscape. This remains an unresolved dilemma.

2. The garden.

This, my first garden, has proved to be an eye-opener for me. I have come to realise that I am not, despite my professed interest, a gardener at all; I do much better with things in pots and planters, and cannot for the life of me maintain a garden to look interesting and colourful beyond Spring and early Summer. Thereafter it deteriorates rapidly into patches of bare earth, rampant weeds, and a jumble of gone-over straggly plants concealing an army of lurking snails. The Gardener is of no use at all, except for pruning and cutting back when things get desperate, as he is run off his feet elsewhere at this time of year, and in any case, rejoices in the jungle-aka-cottage-garden style. This too remains an unresolved dilemma, but oh, can we fight over my desire to lay some lawn down! Or, ignoring the numerous roses, make it into a vegetable garden instead. But then there are the snails….

3. Finding things to do.

I remain overwhelmingly thankful that I am retired and do not, ever, intend to go back to work in any shape or form. I detest having fixed commitments; too many years of working with a full diary, I guess. And I love love love being at home. But I am also aware that I don’t have a lot to do with my time, and am secretly rather embarrassed about my laziness. This was not a problem before I moved here, as I had been so utterly exhausted in those days that becoming comatose would have felt too busy for me. But I need to think about pursuing a wider range of activity, as daily dog-walking and half-heartedly keeping house isn’t really enough any more. I know the word “hobby” is on the tip of your tongue; “short-lived interest” is poised on mine.

4. Cooking.

Broadly speaking, I gave up baking when I moved to this area of teashops and cake (although I still have too many boxes of utensils, trays and tins that need to be rehomed one day). But when The Gardener moved in, a vegetarian with a hearty appetite, I rejoiced in the opportunity to cook ‘proper dinners’ for two, and have expanded my rather homely repertoire to include Middle Eastern and generally more interestingly flavoured dishes. My spice and grain collections and range of ingredients are becoming impressive! Sumac, freekeh, pomegranate syrup, lucuma, and tons of lemons, I can offer all this and more, and I enjoy cooking more than I ever did. “What do you find to do with chickpeas?” a neighbour asked in bemused tones, and was amazed by the response.

However. There has to be a However…. As a result of all this enthusiasm, The Gardener and I turned into roly-polies, and have had to commit to a weight-loss (chiefly portion-control) regime. So now I have become the Food Police; The Gardener has become the subversive element, who enquires innocently about pudding and sneakily slips forbidden foodstuffs into the shopping trolley. But slowly, we are seeing results.

5. Blogging.

Still a great pleasure, as is reading the blogs of others, but rather too closely linked to no. 3; I simply don’t have very much to write about! And, frankly, writing was so much easier when life was fraught – some of you came through the two dreadful years of selling/buying/not selling/not buying/selling the old house/buying the cottage – such an ordeal but one offering rich blog material.

But I’m not complaining. A quiet uneventful life is just fine by me. Here’s to the next five years!

Two days ago, The Gardener and I hopped on a train for a day trip to Exeter, a day trip with a difference. Our chief reason was to see this, before it ended on the 7th:

Shrouds of the Somme, the work of the artist Rob Heard.

We walked uphill into lovely Northernhay Gardens, noting the sombre faces of those who  were now leaving, silent.

What a powerful, poignant, and I have to say tear-inducing, sight; 19,240 tiny shrouded figures, immaculately laid out on the lawns, many of those nearer the edges with little flowers added by members of the public.

Each figure represented those who died on the first day of the Battle of the Somme, July 1st 1916. 19,240 lives lost.

There would be another 82,000 casualties by the end of August.

A man read aloud, gently, from the list of the dead: name, rank, regiment, age. Many were very young, some still boys who had lied about their age to join what must have seemed a noble cause.

Other, similarly stark and beautiful commemorative tributes had been held across Britain; I wished we could have seen the ‘ghost soldiers‘.

But this was enough. And we too left the Gardens with sombre faces, in silence.

One UK baby, part:

Mexican

English

Scots

French

Belgian

German

Dutch

Sadly, too young to vote.

At present.

T lives up the road, and is one of the village’s better-known residents. It is wise to avoid her if you need to be somewhere else and have only half an hour to get there, as 29 of your 30 precious transit minutes will have been spent wriggling in desperate politeness trying to escape from T’s entirely random flow of words, before you hoist up your skirts and run for your life. It is usually easy to know when she is approaching, as she often sings to herself, in a high voice, as she walks. T feels strongly about things; occasionally she weeps.

She is always rather smartly turned out, often carrying an umbrella, and is well-spoken, although I am told that she can swear like a trooper when roused.

I always say hello; she always looks surprised, as though accosted by a complete stranger. This has gone on now for almost five years. But sometimes I am the recipient of T’s effortless volubility. The other day we had a lively chat in the road about the Summer Solstice, along with the usual gloomy, very British refrain of  how the nights will be Drawing In from now on. We parted on friendly, familiar terms.

Two days later, she passed me again, wearing a lovely floral print summer dress. “Hello, T!” I said. “You look very nice – what a pretty frock!”

T stopped dead, and looked at me in genuine astonishment.

“Do you know me?” she asked.

For five years, T, only five years.

I walked home from Seniors’ Lunch yesterday – at a cracking pace – with Ivy, who is 91 and very deaf but who walks at least three brisk hilly miles on her own almost every day just for the love of it, as well as being in a weekly walking group. She was anxious to tell me some sad news, namely that her brother had died that morning. Her sister had come to tell her, and had encouraged her not to stay away from the weekly lunch, as she had been upset and unable to eat since saying her final farewells to her brother in hospital two days ago. She did come, ate some lunch, but seemed deafer than usual, and hadn’t mentioned her loss until we left.

Her brother had been a very sick man, and his death came as a release from suffering for him and almost a relief to his sisters. What upset Ivy most was that he had been ten years younger than her, and it felt too unfair that he should go first, taken before her, and before his time. We talked sombrely about how difficult it is, as you age and remain fit, to see so many friends and family die before you. Ivy comes from a large family, has many grand- and great-grandchildren, and is related by marriage to half the town and adjoining villages. Her memory is sharp, and goes back a very long way indeed.

As I always do, I had to look over her garden, filled with thriving yet venerable plants (“that one came from my father” – in 1963), and to admire the roses that The Gardener prunes for her each year, and I watched her go into her spotless, comfortable  little house that she maintains herself without help. But she turned about and came out again, saying that instead of “just sitting down” she would walk over to her other brother’s house, to help him with the funeral arrangements. And we marched briskly on.

Later I realised that despite her sadness and her feeling that she should have been the one to die, rather than her brother, a mere 81-year-old, Ivy had no real feeling that she was old at all. Older yes, old no. Life remained full, active, busy, independent. Long may she continue to feel that way.